| eakratz |
Melaku was happy. Zedric had ordered him to find the missing Mustafa which provided him an excellent excuse to wander the city. People everywhere in the bazaar shopping, gossiping, laughing, yelling, and hawking their wares; the ebb and flow of it brought a smile to his face. This is what he always liked, people and the things they could accomplish, their stories.
Most of the day had been spent idly. He had sat under a palm and watched children play in the dust before the gathered and he told them the story of the Tortoise and the Hare to their laughs. Then he wandered the food stalls snacking on tasty bits for a couple of hours gossiping with vendors and customers. He played Tiles with the old men and laughed at a well-told marionette show for which he tipped most graciously. At some point the complaints of a washer woman to her toiling compatriots regarding a loud brute of a man near her apartment that most obviously was not only unseemly loud in his passion but also had besmirched a woman of some social standing with that groaning roaring excess.
Melaku heard that and leaned on his staff to turn around to look over the marketplace with a different eye. It took a while but he could finally see a group of separate men asking pointed questions to the kinds of people who notice everything and have lips easily loosened with coin. It was only a matter of time. A few kind words and a palm shaded by silver to assuage the difficulties of a lack a sleep for a washerwoman and Melaku was off. His Persian blue Garundan robe billowing out in his haste, the embroidered gold suns and silver moons flashing in the early afternoon hot sun and his bright yellow silk sash was like a tongue of flame ending in its white ends snapping with the wind, silver tassels flashing like sparks behind him.
Mustafa must have made quite a ruckus because the men seemed also to be headed in the same direction. A quick beseeching to a passing zephyr to raise a whirlwind of dust and the concerned plea to a charmed guard regarding thieves after a lone merchant’s coin would delay them but not for long.
The tent was easy to find but it was too quiet. Melaku parted the heavy rug door with his staff and entered the dark interior. His elven eyes were sensitive to the change in light and he was momentarily blinded even as the cloying smells assailed his nostrils. Thick incense could not mask the stench of hedonism and neglect that was a heavy as the shadow.
“Mustafa?!”
The hulk of a man sat on a wide bench folded into his massive hands panting over a nightsoil bucket.
“Mustafa!”
“Gods wizard,” groaned the creature, “Do you have to shout? You’ll split my head in two, you sadistic bastard.” Mustafa curled over more to line his face over the bucket, collapsing into a contorted shape.
“Where, by Hell, have you been man? Zedric has been looking for you for days.”
Mustafa unfolded himself to almost stand straight steadying himself with the tent’s pole. Mustafa was naked and Melaku could easily see the impressive array of scars that stalked beneath a pelt of hair as well as other impressive endowments but the layer of sweat, vomit and other indecent foulnesses caused the half-elf to grimace and turn his gaze away as much for decency as preservation of Melaku’s stomach.
Mustafa pulled the fouled bucket up to vomit and then dropped it to stagger to a pitcher which he threw back and poured the contents straight down into his gullet.
“I hope for your sake that’s water,” Melaku commented, perhaps a bit louder than necessary. His words elicited a miserable moan from his friend.
“I met a woman. You know? A woman, you damned eunuch!
Unlike you and that celibate of a priest, some of us need a bit of companionship, once in a while.” Mustafa grimaced at the sound of his own voice.
“She’s a beauty Melaku let me tell you. About your height but twice as wide. She’s got hips on her like a godsdamned auroch. She drinks like a Cayden Caylen himself and she swears like a Mwangi mule driver.” Melaku saw Mustafa actually smiling for a second before he groaned and grabbed his head again.
“So you rutted with her for last night then? We haven’t seen you for a week.”
“We’ve been holed up for days. Balls man, I don’t know how long. She left this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday. She said she had to check in with her husband . . . some merchant.”
“You’ve been f#&$ing a merchant’s wife? You ape! Please at least tell me that he’s not a successful merchant?”
Mustafa grunted and shrugged. “He must be pretty successful, she dresses like a sultana and I think I remember some servants standing around while we . . .” he belched loudly and frowning at the taste.
Melaku gagged at the smell and covered his nose with his sleeve.
“You’re an oaf! You’re going to get yourself killed. Cuckolding a Sothis merchant? These maniacs kill people for just making eye contact with their wives and are you aware that he already knows of your involvement? That the whole neighborhood is aware of your week of Calistrian excess?”
Mustafa had already covered his ears halfway through Melaku’s tongue-lashing.
“Mercy, Melaku. Lower your voice, I beg you!” Mustafa pleaded, rubbing his temples.
The tent flap opened and a large Osirion enuch entered. Though naked from the waist up, the man was covered in gold jewelry from waist to skullcap in the forms of rings and bands, chains and plates. Hanging from a fine black leather and cheetah pelt weapon belt was a large, bejeweled scimitar with a shimmering naked blade.
Melaku stepped away and began thinking of an appropriate Word of power to use but the slave dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
“I bring greetings from my mistress, pit fighter,” the harem guard announced. His voice was soft, feminine but also unwavering. Melaku could hear the strength of the man between the syllables. Mustafa tried in vain to decide whether to shield his fragile eyes or ears from the sudden arrival.
“She wishes to thank you for your . . . attentions this past week and gives this gift as a token of her appreciation.” The servant tossed a large leather bag on to the ground that landed with a heavy thud and a muffled jingling. “She also wishes me to tell you that her husband appears to have become aware of your presence.”
Melaku frowned. “I told you that already, you motherless goat! You’re going to get yourself killed and you’re going to get me killed along with you!”
The servant glanced in the Melaku’s direction and gave a hint of a nod before returning his gaze to Mustafa who had turned his backside to the doorway to crawl onto the bed revealing even greater atrocities of hygiene. “My lady suggests that perhaps you might have grown weary of the noise and chaos of our glorious city and encourages you to seek out new adventures somewhere else . . . preferably somewhere far away.”
Mustafa didn’t seem to be listening to the man. In fact, he appeared to be trying to burrow under a pile of pillows in an attempt to get away from the noise of the conversation.
“If I may,” Melaku intruded. “I would say that Sothis might be a dangerous place for this one.” He gestured at the formless pile of pillows and hirsute body parts.
The servant nodded. “Sothis is always a dangerous place. But for this one, I would say particularly so. There are always knives in the street, arrows in the dark; always people willing to take gold to avenge a wealthy man’s honor.” With that the slave slipped out of the tent.
In a rage, Melaku stormed over to the pile of wretchedness and begin to vigorously beat the wretch with his staff. “I knew it, you camel raping son of a whore! You’re going to get us all killed!” The blows drove the drunken wretch from the soiled bed even as it sent a new wave of stench of filth and dust into the air. Mustafa barely seemed to feel the blows as he crawled over to the bucket to vomit again.
“Please, Melaku, please . . . I’ll pay you a thousand gold to just stop shouting .”
Melaku sighed saying a prayer of exasperation to Gozreh thinking that the oaf didn’t know really powerful shouting which he was sorely tempted to display for him excepting for the attention it would produce so he moved off to the doorway to peer outside.
They were not near yet but the sound of angry locals protesting invasion into their homes meant that there was little time. His silver-green elven eyes spotted the leather bag on the floor and curiosity got the better of him. He opened the bag with the end of his staff. “Probably full of vipers . . . ,” he muttered, but in fact the bag held only an enormous pair of sandals. Intrigued, Melaku picked them up. They were of wondrous quality, with detailed stitching that zigged and zagged in geometric patterns. The wizard allowed the power of the First Tongue to assemble in his thoughts , and the footwear glowed. The stitching rearranged itself and before his eyes he saw cats appear within the patterns. Melaku let out an appreciative whistle at the auras apparent to him. “Very nice, Mustafa.”
He turned to find the man face down on the floor, ass in the air, cradling the bucket in one immense arm. Melaku sighed and then whacked him with his staff again.
“Get up, man! Get up and get dressed. Put on your fancy new sandals and your clothes, wherever they might be and let me waste magic we might yet need to clean you up so the dogs don’t mob us looking to eat the carrion you smell like.” Melaku’s staff shimmered and Melaku began directing his thought towards a general clean of the naked man. “We’ve got to get the others and get the hell out of town before your paramour’s husband has us all killed.”
The only response was a low, pathetic whimper as filth rained off Mustafa’s body, brown and rancid, onto the floor. Next it was the simple clothes and armor scattered all about the tent. When it was done and Melaku let the cantrip fade away he noticed that Mustafa was still prostrate on the floor in a circle of waste.
“GET UP!” the elementalist shouted and he raised his hand, a ring of faint electricity shimmering in the palm, and slapped Mustafa’s ass. The crack and sizzle of the jolt, limited in power by Melaku’s choice, was drowned out by the roar of pain and surprise from the warrior who bounded up and spun around to face the wizard.
“I’LL KILL YOU!”
“Fine! Whatever, you mountain goat, but before you do put that falda’a yak’s dong in this battle skirt, don your frakkin’ armor, put on your gorram sandals and get your gishon’de BELONGINGS BECAUSE WE ARE LEAVING YOU WHORE’S C@+!!” Melaku visibly contained himself as Mustafa loomed over him. “There are assassins making their way here even now, if not also to our rooms where Zedric and Hakim sit unaware to the danger you have put un all in just to dip that wreck of a cock. Kill me after we get you out of here and alert them that we are not safe in Sothis any longer! And grow up! That jolt barely damaged you, you whining get of a pestilent cow. You’re lucky I didn’t shove that caterwauling instrument of yours up your ass or grab your balls and freeze them off. The latter would certainly help you stay out of married women’s nethers. Now you have but a few moments to decide whether to waste time killing me or get moving. I am going outside to see how close they are and the best route out of here. Be ready when I return. I will render you invisible which should give us some anonymity for a few minutes.”
Melaku turned and left the naked man stewing in anger.
Mustafa stood almost perfectly still as his muscles rippled with rage until he suddenly looked down and quirked an eyebrow in surprise at his body’s reaction and turned to gather his clothes.
“That got me excited. Not a surprise though, Melaku is kinda like a woman.”
“I HEARD THAT! Anymore and I WILL electrify that cock until it explodes like an overcooked sausage you insatiable wretch!”
Mustafa finally finished dressing for the most part and gathered the rest of his belongings together before fading from view from Melaku’s spell and was herded out into the bright sun and deafening noise. His invisibility was partially useful in the face of his swears and invectives from the sensitivities of his hangover but soon the chaos faded away as the curses and crashes of searching grew very close to the tent.
A few moments later Melaku flew into the room, swore and looked about in agitation, and floated over the filthy bed to grab something from behind it. With a face of anger and frustration the wizard spun and flew out the doorway, his staff pointing the way and dragging an unconscious drunken monkey by the tail in his other hand.
| eakratz |
The Hills Have Eyes
The tiny orb glided above the sand, following the lumbering hulk from a distance. From its vantage point to the brute, it would barely be visible.
What is that chucklehead up too this time? mused The Sand Sage. He chuckled as his floating eye observed the massive man punch the sand hill repeatedly, grow frustrated, and then punch a different spot. This went on for about fifteen minutes before the mage grew bored.
Another orb, this one floating out of sight about 70 feet in the air is observing the handsome dark skinned half-elf chanting away. What is he…oh Suddenly five glowing hyenas appear and race around the camp harassing the slaves. This ones got imagination the sage gleefully notes. He turns to the Exemplar.
“I’ll have to keep my,” he pauses for effect and points to his own ocular organ, “eye on this one.” He then falls into a fit of huffing laughter. Exemplar Khymrasa glowers at him.
“Just get him!” she barks, clearly not amused.
The Sand Sage grunts and goes back to his work. Where is that troublesome little half? Oh, there she is. Just on the out limits of the range, he sees her hiding underneath a tarp, pointing towards the wagons. Just what is she? Nuts are unscrewing, bolts and nail popping out. This one’s got talent. Let’s see if the big guy has given up on those dunes. Nope.
“Find their stuff!”
“Wha-, Uh, excuse me ma’am.”
“Find their s&@*. Clearly they didn’t come all they way out here in what they are wearing. And figure out what the f++& they are doing this for before I find myself another diviner.”
The Sand Sage breathes deep, then digs out a copper wire.
“Query. Black flamboyant half-elf. Large scarred brute gem in hand. Beautiful petite half-elf female. Connections? Reason sabotage Tumen dig Khymrasa. Known equipment? Buy you beer.”
He then cycles through his other floating eyes and turns in for the night.
The next day he awakens and observes as the delectable half-elf saunters through the crowds, casting various spells to cause workers and guards to shiver and flee. More hyenas. What the, the hyenas are tearing apart a guard!
“Pick him up!”
He bends off another piece of wire. “Her exemplarness wishes for you to arrest the black skinned half-elf in the decorative hat. He is near the water trough. Don’t hurt him.” He watches as the Chelaxians close in on the half-elf, only to let him slip through their pale skinned fingers, turning invisible before they have a chance to act. The Exemplar is fuming.
“Ok, make a drawing and post it. Rewards for information that leads to the arrest of those doing the sabotage!”
Suddenly a voice rings in the Sand Sages head. “Black Melaku. Brute Mustafa. Katapeshan mercenaries. Girl Mithril Scarab. Pathfinder. Equipment Mustafa sitar. Melaku darkwood staff. Scarab unknown. Companions. Zedric Desnan. Hakim archaeologist. Location unknown.”
Hmm, Melaku is carrying a walking stick, and moving with a limp. Feigned I imagine. He concentrates on the sitar and pulls out a forked twig. “S~#*.”
“Her highness. Could you send the slave masters and Cheliaxians to make sure there are not any sitars in our vicinity.
He waits until a sergeant reports they have confiscated all sitars.
“Shall I destroy them?”
“Hell no. They are instruments that make beautiful music. Take them about a mile out of camp.”
Okay, concentrate. Chant. There it is! He sends one of his eyes out. “Mistress, your going to need to send a tow ankheg.”
| eakratz |
Awakening
The final Star-Gem is placed in the receptacle. The ancient noble djinni feels her form slowly solidify with a soft hiss. She senses the confusion of the visitors whom placed the gems as they hear the rushing air.
How long has it been? Nefeshti muses as her form coalesces above her tomb for thousands of years. As her eyes form she spies an airy human prostrate at the foot of her sarcophagus. This one is kin. she notes. Behind her, a wizard of some sort wearing an interesting hat. He too, smells of home; and someone familiar. Next to him is a young looking half-elven woman staring wide eyed. And tragically, a massive armless warrior stands starting blankly, not paying attention. She notices that the horrendous injury is recently healed, likely with minor curative spells. I can help with that.
On the massive warriors shoulders is a monkey. Wait. She cocks her head at the animal and smiles. He smells familiar too. Then she remembers and the liberators, which is what she is thinking of this band, notices her smirk. If he wants to play like this, so be it. I’ve got rewards for these folk.
Fully formed, the woman stands an impressive twelve feet tall. Her perfectly proportioned body brings awe to all four of her visitors. When she speaks, her alto voice booms throughout the chambers of the Pact Stone Pyramid.
“I am Nefeshti; Vizier of the Templar’s of the Five Winds! You have been destined to release me from this captivity to continue the war against the evil efreet lord Jhavul! Although I have waited thousands of years for my release, time is now short. The Countdown Clocks are approaching the zero hour and the Firebleeder must be found. The traitor Zayifid has been loosed and is reeking havoc with his unfettered powers of wish-magic. I must stop him immediately. But you shall be rewarded for your service, mortals. I have three wishes to give!”
Aishê cries, “It is only my wish to serve the ancestor!”
“You may. We have much to do granddaughter!” She turns her gaze to the armless warrior. “You. I imagine you wish for your arms back great warrior.”
Mustafa clears his throat, coming out of his daze to speak. “Urm. I fought all of my life, and will probly fight to my death. Might I have arms of steel to better break my enemies?”
Time slows for the quartet as Nefeshti closes her eyes and lets her consciousness drift across the the sands of Osirion and the waters of the Inner Sea and over the Isle of Kortos and towards the city of Almas. There, she drifts down the streets and alleys until a clanging reaches her senses. There, the former slave Rza is working on his masterpiece. A fine set of adamantium gauntlets. He feels a breeze and gains an inspiration. Outside, the people walking the streets slow to a halt. The gauntlets are worked furiously. Mechanical levers, pulleys, valves, and hydraulics are welded in. Hidden compartments and chains. Torag looks on at the hypersped blacksmith works at a pace rivals his own and a rare smile creases his beard.
Time slows to normally as Nefeshti gives a wispy kiss to Master Rza, takes the gauntlets, and drifts back towards the Pact Stone Pyramid. Rza stares at the neat stack of gold bars left in his masterpieces place. He intuitively realizes that his work was needed to fulfill a wish. “I must learn who has received my gift. It must be used for good.”
The observes see Nefesti’s form become insubstantial for a second. When it solidifies, she is holding a fantastic pair of metal arms. “Hold out your arms, warrior.”
Mustafa holds out his stumps as Nefesti bends forward and holds the metal gauntlets to the remains of his arms. As Mustafa feels his muscles and nerves infuse with the adamantium, he feels inherent goodness in the gift. I must not use these for evil. Mustafa clangs his new fists together and grumbles.
“Mu-Sta-Fa ain’t nuttin to f~~~ with.”
“That’s right, young gladiator. Use them to rid the world once and for all of the blight that is Jhavul, wherever he may be. Find him and destroy him, for his machinations threaten us all. As you practice with this gift, you will find it has powers that you could only dream of.” Then she turns to the half elf wizard carrying the Sapphire of Vardishal.
“And you, young wizard. What is is you wish for?”
| eakratz |
A Revenge Flavored Tea
“This is it then?” Exemplar Khymrasa asks the Mithril Scarab.
“It most certainly is,” lies the cunning Pathfinder explorer. “It was the centerpiece of a sarcophagus housing the body of an ancient djinn.”
“Where is this djinn now?”
“Could be anywhere. She was in quite the hurry.”
The Exemplar glances Mustafa’s way. “What happened to his arms?”
“The djinn again. The guarding of the Pact Stone ripped them off in his death throes.” But at this point, Khymrasa is barely paying attention as she cradles the “Pact Stone” in her palms. The Mithril Scarab continues to talk but her voice falls on deaf ears. An orderly brings a chest full of various coins and gems and shoos off the Scarab and her friends.
3 months later
The Exemplar is sitting in her study as she ponders the gemstone that girl and her friends brought out of the Pact Stone. It certainly is magical. She studies the single hieroglyphic number count down. That little b~*~%. “Adad! Who were the adventures that went into the Pact Stone Pyramid for me back in Pharast?”
The eunuch pauses. “Katapesh mercenaries from a town called Kelmarane, Your Grace.”
Khymrasa grimaces. “Remember that homely woman that came to me for funding last month. Get her.”
The next day, a rough looking brunette and her attractive yet warn-out looking partner are waiting for her in her foyer. “Follow me.” The Exemplar doesn’t wait as she walks through into her office.
“So, you two ladies needed funding of some sort?” Khymrasa queries as she sips on freshly poured chamomile.
“Yes. We are planning an assault. I assure you you will more than make up your investment in loot.”
“And who, pray tell, are you assaulting?” Mustafa, Mithril Scarab, Melaku. She rubs her hands together.
“A gladiator named Mustafa, a traveling priest named Zedric, and wizard named Melaku, and an archeologist named Hakim.”
“I think I might be able to help with that.” she smiles evilly.
Hmm, this tea is good.
| eakratz |
Loss
Mustafa looked down at the black metal hands at the ends of his arms. He opened and closed the fingers and heard a slight sound, like stone grinding on stone. His eyes studied the surface, following the lines and pits in the ancient sky metal. The construction was impossible to fathom, at least for him.
His mind, like a tongue seeking out a rotted tooth, wandered tentatively back to that moment deep underground. The snake devil, towering over him, swayed on its feet. Its eyes rolled back and Mustafa remembered the joy of victory as the creature crashed to the ground. That feeling was wiped away, first by horror, then by a white wave of pain as the devil’s arms, ending in giant serpents, latched on to his own and ripped them off at the elbow. His stumps sprayed blood like fountains, and Mustafa staggered back, screaming in pain and shock.
He couldn’t remember much after that. His allies had tried to hold him down, he thought. He has flashes of Melaku hanging from his neck, the Scarab from his waist, as the priestess Aishe called to the Wind and the Waves to stopped the bleeding and close the wounds. Though the bleeding stopped, he had still felt deep pain flashing from his shoulders all the way down to his fingertips. What damned finger tips?! They were stuffed down the gullets of that devil’s snake-arms! he had thought. He had even taken a step toward the creature to retrieve his hands, then howled with the realization that he couldn’t pick them up.
Mustafa didn’t remember wandering through the tomb after that. Melaku had to fill in some gaps. But he did remember finding himself in front of a genie as she took away his pain and gave him . . . these. Again he flexes his new hands, listening to the sound they make. They were things of wonder. Many moments since then he had gloried in their power, smashing stone walls and heavy doors and the occasional unfortunate soul in his way.
But right now, he could only hate these new hands, clumsy club-fingers of metal. As his eyes looked past them to the shattered remains of his sitar in his lap, he became aware of a new pain, one that mirrored the agony of that moment back in the tombs. That sound, stone on stone, was the only sound these hands could ever make.
“F#*! you, new hands,” he growled softly. And he sat there cross-legged on the floor, listening to the melody in his head.
| eakratz |
Boredom
Mustafa the Fist, Master of the Battle Market of Kelmarane, was bored. Sitting on the massive stone throne overlooking the pits, he watched several of his better fighters go through their paces. He couldn’t even muster up the enthusiasm to shout at their occasional sloppy form.
For a year now, he had been working on this business. And it hadn’t really been that hard. As soon as the trade route was opened, people had filled his seats. At first it was his name that drew the crowds and made the coin. But slowly he had bought other warriors. Most of them were slaves, whom he immediately freed. In exchange, they paid back their purchase price along with a cut of their winnings. Soon enough, fighters were seeking him out. He had developed a reputation in Katapesh as a fair dealer. Mustafa snorted at the thought.
Zallah rose from her place at his side at the noise. She began to vigorously beat him about the shoulders with her heavy hands, a sensation he found delightful. Generally the half-orc’s work was enough to shake him out of his gloom. But not today. He waved her away, and she sat back down, grumbling in Orcish. Zallah was a prize, this he knew. She and her sister concubines, Thebus the human and Sylph the tiefling. When he lost his hands, he was a mess, an actual physical mess. The smell grew so bad that Zedrick threatened to put a curse on him if he didn’t hire a nurse to clean him up. The idea would never have occurred to Mustafa, but he was glad of the priest’s words. Not only had the women helped him with his washing, they had soon settled into a happy domesticity that he could never have anticipated. At the same time, his business grew more and more profitable. He hired Holberus to be his factor, to handle his accounts and the day-to-day business of the battle markets, and the dwarf had doubled his profits in a month. Holberus took care of the paperwork, and Mustafa spent his days training fighters or battling in the pits.
But it wasn’t long before these joys had faded. Despite his fears, his concubines got along well, too good for his sake. They soon began to gang up on him and order him about. Half the time he was in the pits, it was to get away from their bossing. Under their attentions, he had restored the apartments above the battle markets, spending obscene amounts of gold on various fineries. He found himself surrounded by silk and gold. It was . . . disturbing. But it kept the three of them happy and off of his back. And he didn’t have anything else to spent his profits on.
The pit too lost its luster. His arms made things . . . difficult. He spent several months learning how to fight with them. They were things of wonder. Soon he was as good as he ever was. Hells, he was better. He had to take to sparring with two and then three of his own fighters at a time. And several months ago, the steady flow of gladiators that had been streaming into Kelmarane to challenge him had just dried up. It had been weeks since anyone had called him out. Warriors still came to fight in the pits. They just didn’t want to fight him.
I’m going to have to go find the gods damned Carrion King himself to get a decent fight around here, Mustafa thought darkly. He held out his golden tankard, and Sylph refilled it with Osirion wine. Maybe he could get Zedrick and Melaku together. Surely we could find some damned quest to go on. Maybe we could go kill a dragon. Or giants. We could go kill some giants. He drank deeply from his glass. I’ve got to do something.
Holberon appeared at his left arm, silent as stone.
“Well, dwarf?” Mustafa growled. “What is it?”
“Sir, there is a strange priest at the bar. He’s asking for the Knight Protectors of Kelmarane.”
Mustafa grinned at the news.
“Go get the priest and the wizard. Tell them what you told me, and ask them to meet me at the bar.” This is it, he thought. Thank you, Desna. Thank you for finally answering my prayer.
Mustafa drained his cup and stood up.
I’m going to get the hell out of here and go have some fun.
| eakratz |
Blame
Zedric saw the bardiche flash through the air, faster than something that large should move. And when he glanced at Mustafa, he saw that the bardiche had struck true. Time seemed to slow down, and Zedric saw each step. He saw the white lines appear across Mustafa’s chest, he watched them slowly turn red, then he watched the bleeding begin for real. He knew, as soon as it started, that nothing could be done. He watched as the big man crash to the floor.
As Zedric dodged the other gnolls, he couldn’t help but think “I did this. I brought him here”. Mustafa would still be in the slave pits, or possibly a whorehouse, but alive. Instead he was laying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. Why didn’t I notice he was injured before we went downstairs? Why didn’t I ask Desna to grant me a shielding spell? As he dodged under another uppercut, Zedric swung his staff into the creatures ankle an moved on to the next one.
His thoughts were in a haze as he spun, leapt, and swung. Desna was surely with him, the fight was not in his favor. But he continued to move, continued to travel, and tried to buy as much time as possible for his friends to cast their spells. Zedric knew that his friends were fighting equally hard, he could hear the thundering noise of Hakim’s new weapon in the distance, and caught glimpses of Melaku’s fire and smoke spells.
The goblin was a surprise, as we’re the other gnolls, but the routine was the same. Keep moving, keep dodging, wait for the clear opening. And when it was all over, Zedric realized that he probably couldn’t even give his friend a proper burial. He was simply too large to get up the stairs in one piece.
As he silently stared at the floor, shocked, a voice floated into his consciousness, “There’s a funny story behind this scroll…”
| eakratz |
Humans. So Distracted.
It was a s%@*ty deal. The offer Rokova put to the mortals was bad and he knew it, but he was taken be surprise by just how fast they found the nasty brute-king and he had to think fast. It would have been better to capture and disarm them, but they were a coordinated group and could tell he was full of s&*#. He stayed invisible as he watched them descend into The Pit of Screaming Ghosts. “Damned forbiddance! If I could just go down there myself!”
After they descend he gets to work. The stinking gnolls are in a panic. He races around from room to room, trying to assert his own dominance. But he knows there are other factions in play here. Many gnolls were uncomfortable with Madfang’s experimentations and want to harken back to the good old days of loot and pillage. Rokova knows his ties to Ghartok don’t score any points with this crew.
Still he tries. An hour passes. Then two. He has a good half the tribe under control when he hears the crashing sounds from the throne room. He puts a lieutenant in charge of the current round-up and goes investigates. That damned barbarian is punching through the wall! S#!~, they…never-mind. Humans, so distracted.
“They slayer’s of the Carrion King are back! Forget our differences for know! We must band together and fight!”
| eakratz |
The Funeral of Mustafa
Melaku settled on the soft flat topped stone beneath the young olive tree. The hot wind tried to push the leaves away to allow its mistress the sun to touch the soft green grass and newly planted flowers that were sheltered there and sear them away but the young tree was too healthy and the shade was welcome to the weary wizard. The half-elf leaned against the trunk of the tree feeling the twisted young bark and listened to the water from the delicate looking decanter laying on its side that spilled out into a small rock lined pool that lay behind him. The water that overflowed the pool ran into channels through the graveyard behind the Kelmarane’s church. Most of the area was tended but still dry desert grasses and flowering cacti amongst the stone tombs. The five stone holy warriors of Sarenrae stood upon their tombs looking down the hillside while Sarenrae herself in whitewashed stone towered over the area looking over those that rested there in the rock and dust. The statue had been repaired and gilt in bright brass armor so it gleamed across the graves in the setting sun but not there in the ruins of some building long collapsed. The few graves there were nestled between the short walls and under the green and shade. The rivulets of water that left the confines of that space eventually gathered in a shallow limestone trough at Sarenrae’s feet. One of those graves was new but the turf beneath it was undisturbed.
Melaku paid to have the pool here filled to over flowing, to keep this area an oasis and refuge. A local came to trim and tend the grave of his mother that rested under the olive that he had planted so long ago. It was here that he often studied in peace or rested when he was actually in the town. He had long walked Garundi because he’d had no home but after he and his friends had cleared Kelmarane of the invaders and curses that had befallen it, after he had seen this spot given life, Melaku discovered that he could not stay. As a boy he had always been an outsider like his mother. She had come from far away, been unmarried and mothered an elven half-breed. He was a bastard, spoke strange tongues and possessed strange powers. They were never abused, in fact the people of old Kelmarane had enjoyed his facility to tell a good story and infectious smile but the differences were there, the distances from everyone else.
Now that he was seemingly a hero and given respect he found that he soon grew to yearn to leave. He would always return when called by Zedric or Hakimor…or when Mustafa had needed him; but out there he learned more and taught more and saw more. He loved the road and meeting new people, his mother had said it was his father in him. However, now that Kelmarane had been redeemed there was more to it. He wandered more and more north into Osirion seeking out Avistani elves that might recognize his father’s surname, Selliulerae, and so far that had not been the case but still he sought for some tale or story while he wove tales to merchants and slaves, laborers and royals.
This time it had been different. He had returned from the ancient tainted fortress with the rest, ordered a stone for Mustafa, planted a fig tree that he had found growing in the most inhospitable crag near the Carrion King’s Palace and then left. Mustafa being gone filled him with great sadness. He had not been there to give aid, been too slowly to unleash his power to defend him, he had failed. He knew that such was sometimes the price but of any of them he had always thought that a final rest would be his fate. Mustafa had become like a brother, his brothers in arms like a family, and this was a blow that he could not bear being still so he had left. Again.
He had gone to Solku and Katapesh, far off Sothis and even into Quantium in Nex. He had studied, consulted and learned what he could. He had laughed, engaged in trysts and made new friends as he had always done but in all the miles and gatherings he hadn’t told a single tale.
Melaku laid his staff within reach against the crook of the olive tree’s branches and changed into his Persian Blue Garundan robe with gold suns and silver moons with a field of small stars on the edges. He drank from the beautiful decanter that still bubbled the sweetest water like a soft Aquan prayer before laying it again to drain into the pool.
And then he told a tale, the tale of a scarred ugly gladiator slave who won against all odds until he was freed and escorted a prisoner. By himself Melaku performed the tale to the wind in the grasses, to Sarenrae’s open arms and beatific face, to the few songbirds that gathered in the branches above to drink and wash in the shimmering pool below. Sitting upon his rock or gyrating to give the story more weight he told Mustafa’s tale. Shouting and whispering, laughing or roaring or screaming in fear, in the languages of the friends and foes that had crossed the path of Fist Melaku told the tale of Mustafa.
Though he started alone he could not but draw the attention of the Dawnflower’s priests and as the sun crossed the sky looking for a break in the olive’s defenses of the small grove word spread throughout Kelmarane and the graveyard filled with people. Melaku did not respond or acknowledge their presence but as night fell he summoned lights to illuminate his tales, and as the crowd grew beyond the graveyard his voice became amplified and he rose into the air so his antics could be seen. Every story of his life that he knew he told and every experience that they had shared he recounted, some more than once, some for the humor one time or the terror of it later. Melaku told morality tales, bawdy tales, tales of his fights and his passions, sometimes his indiscretions and always of his heroism and sacrifice; every tale but this last one, the final one. Through the afternoon and night and into the day again, as people came and went he told the tale of Mustafa the Fist, his friend, until the sun touched the horizon again whereupon he told the last tale as fully and as powerfully as he could. The crowd was at its largest but silence filled the church’s yard and the road beside. Hawkers of food and drink stopped calling out their offerings, children sat quietly in the arms of their loved ones, including the child and woman that had once been saved by the heroes, the greatest and least all were there, human and less than human and the only sound was Melaku’s words and the subtle prayers of the comforting evening winds and murmured song of the pool’s stream.
The last moments of Mustafa’s life carried weight to all who heard as Melaku ended the tale at Mustafa’s grave and was ended with this in the First Tongue as Melaku knelt before the grave.
“Rest peacefully Mustafa my brother and may the hosts of the afterlife have heard clarions and songs of your approach so they could have stood at least half a chance.”
Melaku then stood and laid a kiss upon his mother’s grave before taking up his staff again and made his way back to the hero’s estate where he had a room. A small rank furry beast bounded from stone and head to his shoulder invoking a shake of Melaku’s head and a wry smile as the crowd began to shuffle back to motion parting to let the mage pass.
| eakratz |
Rough Work Up There
Feliped is unaware of the pair of eyes spying him as he leaves Almah’s office on the top floor. Feliped emerges from the archway and proceeds to Kurellak’s countertop and takes his regular seat. The watcher makes his move, taking the stool adjacent to the bard as he waves over the gnoll bartender.
“What will it be, his majesty?” The gnoll inquires, still trying to gain mastery of human honorifics.
“Felliped is just fine, Kurellak. Though if you must, a Sir will do fine. And I’ll take a Razmir Red neat.”
“Same here,” the stranger seated next to Felliped announces.
“Me aims to please, his Sirs.” The gnoll proceeds to pour each of the two humans a tumbler of the imported whiskey, who then proceed to drink in silence. About half way through the second glass, the stranger turns to Feliped.
“Rough work up there, eh?” He asks.
Felliped turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “Nah, just some consulting work. And you, stranger? What brings you here?”
“Name’s Radi, merchant out of Katapesh. The city.”
“Felliped.” He tilts his glass.
“Consulting eh? Something fascinating I bet. Secret ancient treasures?” Something about Radi’s smile puts Felliped off.
“Not really. Standard documents and spreadsheets. Nothing interesting.” Radi detects a hint of discomfort with Felliped. Could they have?
“Oh come now, new friend. Something big is going on here. I can tell. Looks like the Kinght Protector’s are gearing up for a trip.” Something’s in Radi’s expression sets Felliped’s hairs on end. He looks around the bar and spots Fixx and Podarn lounging against the rail outside the stage talking to a couple of Mustafa’s ladies.
“Kurellak,” Felliped shakes his empty glass. Two more." But Radi detects a change in Felliped’s tone.
“I’m sorry, but I have to…” He is cut short as The glass in Felliped’s hand smashes him across the brow.
“Mamelukes!” He Felliped shouts and strikes another blow but Radi is ready and delivers a quick strike across his jaw before Felliped has a chance to deliver. Radi turns to flee, but finds his arms are pinned by the iron grips of the Pactmaster Mamluk soldiers. Feliped straightens himself out.
“Perhaps you should bring your questions to Almah.”
| eakratz |
To the Beast
As Hakim raced along the cliff’s edge with his trusty whip in hand towards the monstrous beast in the valley below he could just barely make out a large winged creature take flight from the nearest structure on the beast’s back and head towards one further in front and on the opposite side. That must be where they are. Without hesitation Hakim leaped from the cliff and gracefully landed on the roof of the building the winged creature just left. From the roof he could spot two other creatures, one looked like a crocodile while another Hakim had never seen before that looked hideous. He could also see a woman flying and shooting lightning out of her hands at the same structure the winged creature flew too just before a cloud of fog enveloped the area. Yea, that’s definitely got to be them.
Without further thought Hakim cast Invisibility on himself, half-slid half-ran down the roof, and leaped effortlessly to the next roofing. The sounds of fighting grew more intense as he entered the foggy area ahead so he put away his whip and drew his pistol. Once through he peered over the edge of the catwalk and could just make out Zedric and, was that Garavel, fighting off strange black tentacles protruding from the walls as well as the three creatures. Looks like the guys are handling themselves for the moment so let me see if I can take care of that flying spell casting b#!$&. Hakim spoke the words and cast his spell becoming visible for her to see. Suddenly in the midst of one of her spells she stopped. She looked confused for a moment as she looked around. Hakim lifted his free hand and tipped his hat as he smiled at the now silenced woman as she flew away infuriated. Grabbing the rope to meet his friends he slid down below where his smile faded fast. On the floor was Melaku …dead.
Of the original four members only Zedric and he were left. Mustafa, lost in the previous fighting with the Carrion King’s minions and slaves earlier. Suddenly he was brought out of his sorrow by the erratic shaking of the building as it appeared the beast was attempting to free itself from its burdens. “I’ll grab Melaku for proper burial. You two head for the crane at the back,” Zedric suggested. As he leaned down to grab Melaku it looked like some sort of water essence entered on of Zedric’s hands. The three of them headed for the crane as they could feel the structures buckle and give each time the beast slammed against the cliff. Hakim arrived at the crane and studied its engineering. From the looks of it the lift only had standing room for one person. “Garavel get in the lift and take Melaku, I’ll lower you down from here, and we’ll be down shortly after you,” Hakim stated.
Hakim said some words for himself and repeated them as he placed a hand on Zedric’s shoulder while Garavel prepared himself. With one more slam into the cliff Zedric & Hakim lowered their friends down to the ground. Just as the lift made it to the ground everything seemed to give way on the beast’s back. Hakim and Zedric leapt clear of the structures with the help of the Feather Fall spells Hakim cast, as Garavel quickly got out of the way of any falling debris. Once the two landed softly on the ground Garavel met them and stated, “Let us see what we can salvage from these ruins.”
Let the looting begin! Maybe I can find something to bring Melaku back to life.
| eakratz |
Deep Well of Paradise
“Akuuyu, you came.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the holy paladin of Sarenrae responds. “As you have wished, Your Holiness.”
“You have done well here helping secure this area from threats, but I have a new task for you. The Knight Protector’s of Kelmarene are in need of your service, and we are in need of theirs. There is blasphemy to our goddess in the desert. There is an oasis we call the Deep Well of Paradise that has been corrupted. Worse, several years ago, one of our own Knights of Sarenrae, a paladin by the name of Fadiyah Al’Qirym journeyed there in the hopes of reconcecrating the oasis in the name of her Dawnflower but failed. Worse, her holy sword Dawn’s Swift Burning was lost. Now that the immediate dangers to the community have subsided, thanks in no small part to you and your efforts against the gnolls and smugglers, we think the sword may be recoverable. Between you and the Knight Protectors you should have the strength to overcome whatever horrible mystery has befallen the Deep Well of Paradise. May The Healing Light guide and bless you on your journey."
| eakratz |
The Fate of The Fist
ding
“Get the exemplar.” The Sand Sage waited in silence. He waved a hand over the pool of quicksilver as the unfolding scene coalesced in the still mercury. The coffee colored mage was visibly distraught and the quick acolyte of Lady Luck stared with mouth agape. Everyone in the room thought the ogre-kin didn’t stand a chance. Except the ogre-kin. He thought he was king and then succumbed to his wombs. The Sand Sage sighed in relief. At least the air elementalist was still alive.
The slaves standing by the archaeologist were cringing in horror when Her Grace arrived.
“So the big one bought the boat ride first? What is going on with his arms? Metal huh. Now that IS interesting.” Khymrasa purred. Since the word was spread about her treachery involving the Pharaohs of Ascension she has been on the run. He was forced to flee Osirion with her. Guilt by association. But they still have a modest amount of wealth. And contacts. “Contact Djal. He’ll certainly be interested in this.” And he’ll pay well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Ha ha ha ha!” bellowed the fat trader. “Mustafa is mine now! Honey!” With tears streaming from behind her hijab, Shepsit let a moan escape, then cried out as the meaty flat of her husband’s palm connects with her cheek with a smack, knocking aside the khimār covering her face. When she tried to replace the scarf, Djal grabbed it and pulled it from her head.
“Whore! You try to play modest with me! When you spread your legs for every two bit cretin who would degrade himself to lose himself between your fat hairy thighs!” He emphasized the last word with another slap, sending Shepsit sprawling to the ground.
“Ahmid, have Rahman set up a meeting with my fellows.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As it turns out, Djal Awi didn’t have the right contacts in Sothis to pull off what he intended, but his associate in Katapesh certainly did. The Jackal has ways to get ahold of services even The Pactmaster’s sometimes cannot procure. So he contacted Madame Fajr to make the arrangements.
It took a month, but he finally was able make arrangements to have a sample of the body returned and to find a mage of enough power to cast the required spell. And a powerful entity indeed. It isn’t everyday that a mere merchant, even one as power as Djal, can claim to have met with masked figure who may be a god. But it seems even gods need gold sometimes, and at this very moment, masked priests were loading the dozens of crates of gold, rubies, and magical items to be teleported up north to the country or Razmiran.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The gladiator stood passively as he stared at the skull in the eerie moon over head. Staying in place for the days and weeks awaiting judgement has made the fighter bored and restless. He contemplated starting a fight with a tougher looking soul when he heard a whisper in his ear.
“Would you like to come back to your old life of excitement and adventure? Your companions are waiting for your return and are in need of The Fist!”
Mustafa slowly rotated his head right and left, but saw nothing.
“Just nod your head and you can have your old life back. Think of it. The women of Katapesh will once again swoon in your presence. The men will cower in fear. And all because The Fist is back!”
The gladiator nodded his head. The Mother of Souls grimaced as she watched the giant of a man wink out of her Boneyard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Aagh!” Mustafa screamed as his form coalesced. He barely had time to register his surroundings when he felt the manacles clamp around his wrists. His wrists! Tears welled up in his eyes as he recognized a sensation he had not felt as anything other than phantom pain for over a year. Then his resolve took over as anger filled his heart. He blinked away the tears and his eyes focused on a fat mustachioed Garundi. The fat smiling man.
“Ah Mustafa,” laughed the Garundi. “We finally meet at last. You made it easy. Expensive yes, but easy for me to gain control of you when you died.”
Mustafa tried to place the man. His confusion must have been apparent to the Garund.
“No,” the man said. The laughter stopping. “You don’t know me but I know you.” Mustafa blinked again.
“Think real hard. know it is tough for one such as yourself. But try. Here, let me jog your memory. Ahmid! Fetch the reminder.” A swarthy servant bows and backs out of sight. Mustafa heard an agaonizing wail before ee reappears a moment later with something bundled in his hands. The fat man snatched it from the servant, ripped off the wrapping, and holds out a bloody, flabby piece of meat over Mustafa’s supine body.
“Recognize this! DO YOU?”
Mustafa’s eyes tried to focus on the pendulating object. Is that a nipple? Then the fat man slapped the meat onto his chest. It oozed off his body onto the floor with a splot.
“Bring the b+@!~!” The servant bowed and shuffled backwards once more. This time he returned much sooner and trailing someone being led by a chain. She was hunched over, cradling her chest as blood poured out from the hole where her breast used to be. It was hard for him to recognize her. It had been a long time, and he never really took note of the many woman he satisfied himself with. Her nose and ears have been cut off. The stubs healed with ugly scars. One of her hands was missing. Oh wait, it is dangling from her neck. She walked with a limp. Then Mustafa recognized the beard and the balding pate.
“Shepsit,” he whispered. Then he raged. “You animal. You fiend. I curse you to the nine Hells and the hordes of the Abyss. When I…” His rant was cut short when a mailed fist cracked against his maxilla, knocking out several teeth and fracturing the bone. He struggled against the chains and tried to scream, but his broken mouth could only grunt as a madman wearing a toothed mask laughed over him.
“Yes, Shepsit. And I am her husband, Djal. You will inimately know my name when I am done with you. Khair. I do believe this man was short some arms when he died. Do you mind rectifying this for me?”
“The Rough Beast will enjoy his pain as much as I’ll enjoy inflicting it.” Without a pause the servant of Rovagug lifted his great ax and brought down onto Mustafa’s arm. Before Mustafa could register the pain, his other arm was hewn. He reflexively sat up, blood spraying from the stumps as he wailed. He futilely tried to kick off the chains binding his feet. Through the pain, he could smell Djal’s fetid breath as the fat man grabbed his head and forced it to look at the wreck of Shepsit. Her eyes made painful contact with Mustafa, then widened as the axe took her head.
“I’m done with the whore.” Djal whispered into Mustafa’s ear. His hot breath stinking spitting all over Mustafa’s neck. Suddenly, Mustafa felt a tickling on his stumps. Then a searing heat and flashes of light strobed the room and then his arms felt heavy. The pain was gone.
“Oh really, fat man.” Mustafa growled as he reached back with a metal fist and grabbed a hold of the fat man’s face, crushing with all of his strength. He slammed the man over his head, forward onto his lap. He used his other fist to smash the chains binding his feat as Djal screamed his agony. Mustafa kept hold of the man as some guards tried to swarm him. Mustafa used their master as a bludgeon against the crowd, his other arm smashing faces and skulls as they tried to flank the former gladiator. Bodies piled high around the warrior
Djal kept his screams going as his limbs broke over his servants and guards. Mustafa looked for the man in the toothed mask when he felt a flash of eldritch pain as an axe smashed him in the chest hard enough to send him reeling back. The man named Khair laughed as he circled around the warrior. Mustafa, looked at the writhing murderous merchant still in his grasp. He unceremoniously smashes Djal’s head against a pillar, sending the body into sickening convulsions as he fell to the floor twitching. Khair just laughed as the two combatants circled each other.
Khair shouted a prayer to Rovagug as Mustafa charged, striking the priest with a powerful blow. The cleric grunted, but returned with a swing from his axe, missing. But Mustafa felt the bite of something else behind him. He quickly turned to look only to see a translucent greataxe weaving in a battle pattern behind him. Mustafa smiled, then proceeded to unleash a flurry of blows against the priest, ignoring the second axe’s chops to his side.
As the priest collapsed in front of him, he saw a dark-skinned man haughtily standing with his arms crossed. The man had an amused look on his face. Mustafa screamed with rage and waded through the bodies and soldiers still trying to engage him.
Then he heard a whistle and saw a woman stroll into the chamber with two bird-like things in tow. She clicked her teeth and the chicken-things strutted around the room towards him as she looked at Mustafa and whispered. His world became very fuzzy when he heard the words “Strike a pose. Show me how mighty you are.”
For some reason, this seemed like the most logical request that Mustafa has ever heard. He backed away from the priest and flexed, then he raised his arms and crouched into his most impressive battle stance as the chicken-things strutted up and began to nip at his naked thighs. At the last second, he shook his head as he felt his legs grow heavy. He took a slow step. Then another.
His world went dark.
| eakratz |
Coming unglued by Mustafa
Slowly the light came back into his eyes. Mustafa feels his limbs loosen and he searches the room for the b&&%$ who had commanded him. Him! Lord of the Battle Market! He would rip her limb from limb.
He sees Hakim standing in front of him, his hand stuck in a large jar, his jaw hanging loose . . . he stands as if struck stupid.
“Wha . . . what the hell are you doing here, Hakim!?” he shouts. “And where is that b@++#? I’ll kill her!”
“The others are in the room that way!” Hakim yells, already running out the door. “Get in there and do what you do!”
Mustafa lurches his stiff limbs towards the door. His body loosening as he moves. At some point he realizes he is naked. Looking around the room, he sees a set of heavy armor tossed against the wall. The pit fighter grunts in frustration but lurchs over and begin to pull the gear on. Better to cover up. No need rushing in with his cock n’ balls flying free.
“I’m coming, my friends!” he shouted towards the doorway, pulling the breast plate over his head. “Mustafa is coming, and I’ll kill every man or beast in my way!”
After what felt like hours, he had the armor on. He shrugs his shoulders.
Damn, this stuff feels good. Mustafa pulls his fists up before his eyes. He opens his fingers . . . closed them. The armor feels like it was made to fit him.
A broad smile spreads across his face as he rushes towards the door.
“I’m coming, you sons of b+$&~es! The Fist is coming!”
| eakratz |
What's missing by Mustafa
The genie man’s flail lashed down at him. Mustafa stepped to the right and caught the head of the weapon in his adamantine fist. The sound the two mystical metals made as they came together was terrible, a ringing that rattled his teeth. The flail’s black fire licked down to the flesh of his arm, and he grunted with pain as the smell of seared flesh hits his nostrils. Shifting his weight slightly, he threw his other fist at his opponent’s face and watched with great pleasure as the creature’s proud expression disappeared in a bloody smear. The bastard collapsed into a heap and moved no more.
Looking to the others, Mustafa saw that they had triumphed over the other genie man, this one with bright red hair. Zedric stood at ease, his breath easy and controlled. Where was his snakey staff? he thought. He remembered flashes from the battle, the Desnan slipping around his opponent and throwing punches. Punches!
“Much has changed,” he said to himself. How long had he been ensorcelled? Zedrick stood with two new compatriots. The first was a swordsman in armor, a tall thin man with a hawkish nose, breathing heavily and leaning on a fine blade of eastern metal. His fine clothes were smeared with blood and burned black in several places.
“Garavel?” the pit fighter called. The other barely looked up, but nodded in acknowledgement. Since when did Alma’s watchdog travel with the Knights of Kelmarane?
And this other man . . . this pretty boy with his scimitar. Who the hell was he? Whoever he was, he could fight. While Mustafa had fought the genie men, he had seen the pretty boy fighting some horrific abomination some feet away, a thing of ooze and bone and death.
He shuddered with the memory.
But something was missing. Mustafa stretched, working out the unnatural stiffness that still held on to his muscles. Hakim. Hakim had freed him somehow. He remembered seeing the archaeologist with a woman . . . a woman in chains.
“Heh.” Hakim . . . always with the dangerous women. The man did have a type. Mustafa had a type, too. The type that sat still long enough! But again . . . what was missing? Something was wrong. As he came out of his battle mind, he could feel it, skirting around in his brain. An absence. Something was missing. Something . . .
Mustafa looked back to Zedrick.
“Priest,” he called. “Where is Melaku?”
| eakratz |
The Summoning - by Zedric
“Here is the text I spoke of, Zedric. It is very old, but I was able to obtain a copy from a passing scholar.”
Rayhan reached out, and removed a dusty scroll from the shelf. “You’ll find the descriptions within, but I must again recommend that you be cautious in this endeavor. The risks are considerable with the more powerful djinn.”
Zedric placed the scroll on the table, and spread it out, releasing the collected dust into the air. The ink was faded, but still legible. "This, being an account and enumeration of the ranks of the djinn, shows the wonderousness of Creation, and therefore the wonderousness of the Creator, blessed be his name.
Zedric unrolled the scroll more, the power of Desna allowing him to make sense of the ancient language. While the text was very complete, Zedric was looking for something in particular.
Hours later…he stabbed his finger down upon the page. "Nura al-Din is counted as one of the Djinn, or the shining ones. Dark of hair and eye, she is graceful and quick like the wind. Indeed, like the wind, she does not deign to touch the ground with her feet. In battle, she favors weapons that fly through the air, and is a skilled archer who is the match of most men.
Curiously for an immortal, Nura al-Din is interested in the world below, and enjoys soaring above the mortal world.to learn its secrets."
Zedric repeated the name seven times, to make sure that his tongue would not falter during the long and difficult spell. Then he went in search of Rayhan. “Is the circle ready?”
“Yes, my friend, though you should check it again. My divinations tell me that you have chosen well, that the risk is minimal.” Said the wizard.
Zedric nodded, and then lit the incense. He hoped the fine silks would be acceptable as a gift. If not, he had the longbow. And, there was always gold and jewels, surely something would entice the Jann.
He began the summoning…
| eakratz |
The Obvious Question by Mustafa
As the laborers sweated in the heavy sun, Mustafa sat in the shade of a fig tree, looking out over Kelmarane. He tossed another date into his mouth and then handed one to Qerd. The monkey snatched it from his hand and retreated into the upper branches, cursing at his master in monkeytalk.
The priest stood next to Mustafa, shuffling awkwardly. For the third time in ten minutes, the man cleared his throat.
“Well, out with it!” the warrior barked.
“Well, sirrah. I just wish you would tell me your intentions,” the priest stuttered.
“Told you,” Mustafa grunted and wiped his forehead with a cloth. “I have a question for my lost comrade. One that must be answered.”
“Yes, your lordship, but . . .”
“Ain’t no lord, priest. Just a lowly pit fighter, as you well know.”
“Yes, sir, but . . . if you would only tell me the nature of your query . . .” The priest seemed frantic. By the sound of their exertions, the workers seemed to have reached Melaku’s coffin. The corpse would soon be unearthed.
“It’s between me and the wizard. It’s not business of yours, priest. Don’t get nosy.”
A red flush flashed across the man’s face.
“Yes, m’lor . . . yes, sir. I only hoped to be best prepared for the spell. And to exhume the body of one of the Knight Protectors is most irregular.”
“Don’t tell me about the Knight Protectors, you wey-faced nancy,” Mustafa growled. “This man was my comrade. He was my boon companion. He was my friend.”
The priest lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Mustafa’s hirelings had wrestled the wooden coffin out of the grave and were looking at him expectantly. He nodded and they began working the lid of the box. This action seemed to drive the priest almost into a fit, as he paced back and forth beneath the fig tree.
“If you would only let me speak to Brother Zedrick or Lady Almah. Even Garavel would . . .”
“Shut your mouth, priest, or I will toss you into the pits to serve as sparring dummy for my gladiators. You will do what I say, and you will be paid in good coin. Now do your job!” Mustafa strode over to the coffin and gazed down at the form of Melaku, wrapped in clean white cloth.
Not so bad, he thought. Better than lying in an abandoned temple, burned to cinders. Or worse, taken as the plaything of a jealous merchant. The priest gently removed the shawl from the corpse’s face, wrapped his long gentle fingers around the still, dried face and beginning chanting a long prayer to Pharasma. Mustafa sighed.
The bastard’s dragging this out just to annoy me, he thought. After some time, the priest’s voice died down, and he looked up at Mustafa expectantly.
“Now, Sir Mustafa. You may state your question,” the priest called to him.
Mustafa leaned over and looked into the face of his dead friend. He saw no spirit there, just dead flesh, but the priest swore that Melaku would answer.
“Melaku, my friend, my brother in arms. I apologize for disturbing your rest . . .”
The priest let out a deep sigh, and Mustafa shot him a dark look.
“I am sorry, friend. But I have an important question that only you can answer.” The workers around him had fallen silent. The city itself seemed to have gone still. Even Qerd had stopped his incessant chattering. It was as if all of Golarion waited to hear. Mustafa took a deep breath and voiced the question that hand haunted him since he had heard the news of his friend’s untimely death.
“Melaku, can I have your hat?”
| eakratz |
The Answer by Melaku
The hot swift breeze that slipped through the leaves of the fig tree and the jasmine growing around the graves of Melaku and his mother became chained by the scent of their flowers, unable to move on. The Pharasman priest dabbed again at the sweat collecting upon his brow. He pulled a small brass flask of water slowly from his waist; the act producing even more sweat than the heat of the day had. The priest feared attracting more attention from the warrior or his feral pet. The warm water slacked his thirst but did nothing to calm his frayed nerves. It had been minutes waiting for the corpse of the Knight Protector Melaku to speak and the warrior Mustafa was not a patient fellow. Falsatta the Acolyte could feel the power of his prayer to Pharasma still pulsing in the desiccated flesh of the half-elven Garundi corpse but it did not speak. He drew a deep quiet breath steeling himself to end the whole disturbing disruption of the interred’s expectation of undisturbed rest when the heavy perfume in the air swirled up his nose carrying just the hint of the violation to its sweet scent. The following startled and unbidden inhalation carried the full impact of the affront leaving the priest tearing and coughing in disgust as he scrambled out of the grave away from the unseen horror. Moving out of the shadows into the full onslaught of the sun seemed to make the stench worse.
That foul demon-beast in the form of a monkey had just released gas.
“By all the dead…!!!”
“Qerd! By a thousand rotting camels dipped in s&&*, you stink!” Mustafa’s voice roared his agitation with his pet but his body didn’t move from his spot by the grave or even betray that he had smelled anything.
“I must…I will…Ugh, by the goddess.” Falsatta stumbled to stand, faltered to speak in the face of the nausea overcoming him. He stumbled away towards the temple using gravestones to support himself against the dry heaves that threatened to overcome him. “I will return soon to oversee the reburial of the Knight Protector when I have…”
The comment was lost in a sudden strong gust of wind that danced through the grove.
Mustafa placed a metal hand upon his knee to push himself off the patch of thick clover growing around the fig tree and glared at the devilish grin of the monkey above.
“I thought he would never leave.” The voice was soft, a whisper forced against the sound of sawing air and creaking limbs. The usual deep rich timbre was largely gone, washed out and pulled thin but the underlying mirth; the hint that a friendly joke had been shared between the lines was still there. Mustafa looked down at the corpse of his friend. Melaku’s dark complexion was now ashen and his full round face was sunken and gaunt although his cheeks were still evident beneath empty sockets that gazed upward at nothing.
Mustafa took a breath. “Well, you took your sweet time.”
Melaku’s jaw wobbled in response flashing his still bright white teeth in his rictus
grin.
Mustafa couldn’t tell if the soft sound was sand and leaves shivering in the wind or the corpse laughing. “I was waiting for my eulogy Mustafa. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that I gave you one and you returned to life.”
“I don’t do yammering like you Melaku. I brought you back here, that was enough. I would not know how…it’s not my way to…” Mustafa stopped speaking and looked at the grave marker that once held his own name. He felt a great deal and that usually made him angry. “You shouldn’t have let your guard down, you blustering buffoon of a wizard.”
“I know my friend, my brother. I miss you as well.”
The dust just outside the cemetery grove danced in circles into the shade to caress the jasmine flowers near the ground. The moment dragged on until Mustafa became concerned that the spell had ended.
“So? Can I have your hat?”
“My hat! My mother made me that hat! A thousand curses she would lay upon me if I let an uncouth drunken lout covered in dried blood and monkey s!+@ try to stretch it over his misshapen head.” Mustafa could hear the laughter under the false indignant horror.
“Listen, you blathering goat, just for once would you answer a question without your noise and crap. Could you just give someone a straight answer for once in your…”
Mustafa didn’t finish the statement.
“Yes Mustafa. You may have my hat.”
“There was that so hard?” Mustafa pulled the hat from his belt pouch and slipped it over his head. The wool was soft and light and surprisingly fit his head. Qerd shifted in the branches above and threatened to drop down on Mustafa’s head but a glowering look warned the monkey-demon away.
“Wear it well and keep it with you until I see you again.” Melaku’s voice was becoming more hollow and empty. “There is a great deal of history to that hat. My father had been gone far longer than he ever had been before and mother feared him dead so, for me, she searched for the wool to make a gift for my birthday that would keep me warm and hold the memory of him close but all the yarn in Kelmarane was course and of poor quality so she shouldered a bag of food and a knife and…” The voice faded to whispers until even the wind which had faltered to a sputtering breeze that barely shivered the leaves of the fig tree was louder and the death grin of Melaku Selliurelae was still.
“I am glad that your friend finally responded.” Mustafa hadn’t noticed the simpering priest return. He was standing next to the grave signaling to the diggers to return to rebury the coffin. “Now, let us allow the Knight Protector to return to his…Ack Urrrrrgh!” Falsatta recoiled as if punched stumbling over a fig root and vomiting over himself as he scrambled to escape an unseen danger. The diggers a distance away caught a hint of the danger and ran back to the temple for safety.
Mustafa did not react except to wipe his moist eyes with a rag from his waist. He then sighed and turned to walk back to the Battle Market.
“Qerd, you truly have the stench of the fetid pits of Hell within you.”
| eakratz |
In the Blood Pits of the Iron God by Mustafa
Mustafa could feel in his bones the low rumbling chants of the Battle Monks of the Iron God. The silent warriors had wrapped him in strange smelling cloth from head to toe. He had a moment as they covered his face in thin strips of cloth. Was this all an elaborate plot to murder him while he was helpless? He let out a chuckle. These weirdos could’ve killed him a hundred times over.
The Battle Monks had found him in a rowdy brothel in the city. Three silent figures in black robes and iron masks had appeared over his bed as he lay sleeping among his most recent paramours. Scrambling to his feet naked as the day he was born, he had prepared to fight. Why was he always naked?
The three figures had remained passive despite his shouts and threats. Finally, one had gestured at him to follow. For some reason, he had done so, scrambling to get dressed and grab his gear. The monks had led him through the streets and out of the city. They had walked for hours, ending in front of an isolated cluster of squat stone buildings out in the hills. He had learned from the servants that these were the Battle Monks of the Iron God. And thus the testing had begun.
For days Mustafa had fought constantly with only a few minutes rest between bouts. He did not sleep, did not eat . . . he only fought. He ended up fighting every monk in the place. And near the end, he started losing. He assumed the victors were the monastery’s masters. He lost, but he made them pay. No man left the arena unmarked.
After the last fight, the monks began their strange preparations. He was anointed with a variety of strange oils and paints. They wrote strange symbols all over him. It all became very weird and disconnected. Mustafa no longer knew how long he had even been here. Dreaming and wakefulness blurred together. And finally he found himself here in the bowels of the monastery, being wrapped up in front of bubbling pit of glowing goo.
Now the monks led him blindly into the pool. The liquid made his skin tingle at first, which distracted him from the fact that the silent men were chaining him in. Chaining him in?! Mustafa started to strain against his bonds and received a violent cuff to the head that made stars appear behind his eyelids and a high ringing sing out in his ears. He shook his head but stopped his struggles.
And then the pain struck him. Unbelievable pain. He tried to scream but he could not get air into his lungs. His bones twisted, his muscles tore, his guts swelled . . . his mind was bathed in a white light of searing pain until he finally blacked out.
When he awoke, the pain was gone, though the strange tingling remained. The rumbling chants of the monks continuing around him. He sat up and the chants stopped. In the silence, he looked around to find that he was on the great altar in the monks’ temple.
Behind him was the massive statue of the Iron God. Mustafa looked down at the monks from a strange height. Lifting his massive fists in front of him, and stretching his limbs, the warrior smiled. Finally he stood. As he realized what the Battle Monks had done to him, Mustafa the Fist’s laughter roared out, echoing across the monastery.
| eakratz |
Punching Dinosaurs in Kakishon
As the giant two-legged lizard gulped down another monkey man, Mustafa the Fist slid around its side.
“I’ll get your attention, you big bastard!” he roared and threw a punch at the creature’s enormous torso. There was a satisfying crunch, and the beast howled so loudly that Mustafa’s skull vibrated.
To his left, he could see Akkuya hacking at the beast’s leg. He heard the thunder of Hakim’s boom stick from behind him, and a chunk of the creature’s hide was blown away. It opened its teeth-filled maw and lunged down only to meet Mustafa’s stone fists. The warrior grinned as giant teeth exploded into splinters. His next strike slammed into the lizard’s skull, and its eyes bulged out and went blank. For a second, Mustafa could see the creature’s spirit, a green misty haze cloaking its mortal form . . .
For years, Master Kento had tried to teach him how to drain the living ki from an opponent. The monk had described how to see one’s aura and how to take from it to fuel your own attacks. The idea had always horrified Mustafa. He had heard of dead men that lived off of the blood of the living, and this sounded much the same. Only recently had he begun to sense flashes of his enemy’s spirits, and more recent still that he had figured out how to take some of that energy. And it felt glorious.
Mustafa reached in and tore off a piece from the aura of the great beast. Energy crackled through his body, and he unleashed a terrifying combination of blows, ending with the mighty lizard collapsing with ground-shaking crash.
There was a second of silence, and then the monkey-men began cheering and dancing around the three companions. A great smile split Mustafa’s face.
“I love this place! Let’s go kill something else!”
| eakratz |
Just One Horror on an Isle of Dread by Akkuya
In the name of the eternal sun, this was an accursed place.
Akkuya hated this place. The sky shone with the sun’s light but there was no sun. The endless water and rolling waves of the sea unsettled him. The island seemed infested with giant reptilian monstrosities. Some with multiple heads and now this, this enormous lizard with a massive head of razor-like teeth and a huge muscled frame covered in the scars and trophies of many years of killing.
The fire within Akkuya flowed from his soul and washed out over his allies as he moved into position to help Mustafa drawing Dawnflower’s Gaze and Pyre’s Death, his magical shield and scimitar, in a flash of gold and silver. Nearer to the beast the fire of Sarenrae shimmered down the blade of the weapon strengthening it and sharpening the blade’s edge to perfection. Unfortunately the creature proved hard to seriously wound but the Purifying Flame kept the monster at bay long enough for the Knights Protector to finally end the lizard’s life.
Akkuya channeled the power of Sarenrae to wash over everyone nearby healing his compatriots and the strange natives equally.
Everything was calm but Akkuya was still disturbed. Only half of the Knights Protector had appeared at the beach, Hakim, Mustafa and himself, and they had been there seemingly two days long. It was imperative that they be found not only to assure their safety but if things proved true based on what had transpired so far their strength would be needed.
Hakim had mentioned that it was likely that if they had been given the quest for the golden horn just by arriving then they must have as well. If they still lived, Akkuya added to himself and he took a moment to pray to the Dawnflower for that to be true.
Mustafa seemed ready to go and Akkuya too wanted to finish this trial in order to accomplish what needed to be done in this blasphemous place and return to Kelmarane.
